On the First Anniversary of Jolene’s Death

For the past 365 days, I’ve felt a bit like the double-headed pushmi-pullyu from the Dr. Doolittle stories that were read to me as a child. The baffled creature could never figure out whether or how to go backward or forward—or which was which. 

First, there was the present: How to live life as a widower, even the practical stuff. So, how do I do the taxes? She actually enjoyed that challenge. (Me? Not at all.) When do the cars need to be serviced (and what do I do with two of them)? Where do I buy the shirts I like (since I’d never bought them myself)? 

Looking Backward

The next moment, I’m looking backward in a memory of something Jolene said or did, or something we always did together. I’m still catching up on the TV shows she recorded. I’m still using the purple pens she purchased in bulk. Rarely do I walk into a room, hear a song, go to a park, sit down for dinner, or leave for work without triggering a memory. Sometimes, it gives me a lump in my throat. More often, a smile.

Some of the looking backward is more intentional and long-lasting. For example, my friends and colleagues from Search Institute donated a bench in memory of Jolene to Westwood Hills Nature Center in St. Louis Park. (Look up “Jolene’s Bench” on Google Maps.) It’s like Jolene now reminds me regularly (as she often did) that we need to spend some time in nature together. I’m glad to comply.

Other looking backward is much harder. Vacations and getaways aren’t the same without her, whether you’re on your own or with others you cherish. Creating those memories aren’t as rich when you aren’t sharing them with the partner who shared all the other memories.

Looking Forward

When I look forward, usually asking myself what Jolene would think. (I tell folks I’m unsupervised now, but I’m pretty sure she’s still keeping an eye on me!) I’ve cleaned out some stuff I don’t need and others could use. (She’d approve, and be pleasantly surprised that I actually got around to it.) I’ve installed solar panels. (She’d need some convincing—not on principle, but, well, it’s a lot of money!) I’ve spent a lot of time with our sons (“I’m jealous”) and lots of time working (“Some things never change”). I’m getting to know some friends better (“Great!”), and I’ve joined a church committee (“Why?”).

I’ve heard this time after the death of a life partner described as an in-between time—a time when you could spend endless hours reminiscing, looking back, living in the past. And yet you also have your life, itself a gift, to live, as paradoxical as that seems sometimes. How do you enjoy a vacation without the person with whom you’ve most enjoyed vacations for as long as you can remember? How do you look forward to retirement (years from now, BTW) when what you had been most anticipating was spending those years with her?

Bumbling Along

I’ve chosen to bumble along like a clumsy pushmi-pullyu, sometimes trying to look backward and forward at the same time. It feels like a way to continue to live in the paradox of real life: We don’t get to pick whether to experience sadness or joy, challenge or comfort. Each is part of life, all mixed together.

A few weeks ago, British journalist Clover Stroud was the podcast, Everything Happens with Kate Bowler (Oct. 17). She articulated this awkward, often painful, paradox she experienced following the death of her sister, Nell. “It’s like something massive, completely collapsing,” she said:

And from that place of utter collapse, you have to create something new. You can’t just stand up, dust yourself down, and carry on walking. There was no way when Nell died that I could go back to the life that I had before, only Nell was dead. That would be too, too horrifying. So there has to be a creation of something new.

Creating Something New

That’s what I’m working on: creating something new. Not because I want to forget the past, but because I know I can’t have that anymore. This is the life I have now. It can be—and is—a good and fulfilling life, even if it’s not the life I had been anticipating and planning for. 

So, this pushmi-pullyu is gradually, and awkwardly, learning to walk one way while also looking another.